


Hospital

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Post canon, blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16504196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Crutchie runs into Spot Conlon in a Manhattan hospital, and lends a hand.





	Hospital

Crutchie's feet skipped over the the ground, punctuated by the steady click and clomp of his crutch against the sidewalk. He'd made more than a dollar that day, the weight of the coins in his pocket like a personal congratulations from the fates themselves. Life was fine, and life great. Crutchie was doing good. The headlines were the best in months, and the setting sun was painting the sky in a dozen pretty colors. 

Finch must've felt the same way. He walked with Crutchie, sometimes beside him, and sometimes backwards up front so that he could look Crutchie in the eye as he told stories about his day, or imitated the funny customers he had met. Right now he was laughing, and making a list of all the different foods that he could buy with the change he'd made that day, even the ridiculous ones that would kill his finances for the next week if he was dumb enough to actually purchase them.

Crutchie almost didn't even bother to glance in the window of the Duane Street Hospital, but then he caught something out of the corner of his eye, and had to backtrack to look again. There was a boy just inside of the window, holding his hand elevated above his head, with a towel wrapped around it, which wasn't unusual in and of itself. What was unusual was the large birthmark on the boy's arm, and the familiar face, which any newsie worth his salt would've known anywhere.

"Whoah," Crutchie said, with a gesture inside, "ain't that Spot Conlon?"

Finch stopped in his tracks. He gave a short laugh. "What does this look like? Brooklyn?"

"Nah," Crutchie said. "This looks like Manhattan, just as sure as that looks like Spot Conlon. Come on Finch, take a gander."

Finch was already way ahead of Crutchie, who had to go his very quickest just to catch up to his friend.

"You got a death wish or what?" Finch asked. "I ain't _gandering_ at no Spot Conlon."

"I wonder what he's doing here?" 

"Maybe he sent some kid to the hospital," Finch said. "And he's waiting for them to finish up."

Crutchie rolled his eyes. "Why'd he beat someone up, then hang around the hospital waiting room to make sure they was okay?"

"I don't know! This is Spot Conlon we're talking about. Could be all kinds of crazy things. Civic responsibility for one."

"Civic responsibility," Crutchie repeated to himself. It was just the kind of fancy, official sounding phrase that fit Spot Conlon perfectly. Still, it didn't add up. Why would Spot have that towel around his arm, unless he was the one who'd got hurt? 

"I'm going in to check on him," Crutchie announced. 

Finch's jaw dropped. It was almost funny to look at. 

"Aww, come on," Crutchie went on. "He helped out with the strike. It ain't like he's our enemy, and besides, no one likes to go to the hospital alone."

"You can't make me go in there. Not for a million bucks."

"Suit yourself. I'll see you back at the lodge." 

Finch scratched his head, "You want I should go back and get reinforcements?"

"Why?" Crutchie asked innocently, "You think that Spot's gonna beat up a crippled kid right in the middle of the hospital? Not only is that stupid, it don't even fit his reputation. Folks all say Spot's fair. Good at running Brooklyn, you know?"

"Alright, alright," Finch said. "I'll see you around. Just remember, you ain't Brooklyn. If anything happens, find yourself a pretty nurse to fix you up and give her a kiss for me." 

Crutchie was already making his way back to the hospital door, but he called over his shoulder a promise to tell all of the nurses where Finch lived. This seemed to mollify him, though he stopped to look back at Crutchie a few times as he walked away. 

 

\---------

The glass door of the hospital was heavier and harder to manage than a hospital door really should've been. Crutchie didn't like hospitals much. He'd spent too much time in them as a little kid. Hell, he'd started out his illustrious career as a professional street waif by being abandoned in one. The smell, a mix of sickness and cleaning fluids was both dizzying, and uncomfortably familiar. Crutchie squared his shoulders, and reminded himself that his own discomfort was reason enough why he shouldn't leave fellow to face this place by himself, not even the fierce Spot Conlon. 

There were too many patients and not enough doctors. Luckily there were still plenty of free seats around the perimeter of the hospital where people in various degree of sickness and injury were waiting to be seen. Crutchie took a place next to Spot. Up close he looked pale, and a red stain was starting to show on his white towel. 

"Hiya Spot," Crutchie said familiarly. The other boy, who hadn't been looked at him, turned around abruptly. His eyes narrowed. 

"You'se one of Jackie's boys, ain't you?" 

"The best of ‘em," Crutchie said. He wasn't sure what made him talk like that. He wasn't arrogant, but he knew that Spot always talked big, so he thought maybe he ought to do the same. Still, he was surprised at the ease with which Spot accepted the boast. 

"Yeah," Spot said. "I remember. You'se the one who cuffed Snyder before they tossed him in the paddy-wagon."

"That's me." 

"What're you in for?" Spot looked Crutchie up and down for any injury, his eyes lingering a little too long on The awkward angle of Crutchie's bum leg. Crutchie was used to people doing that by now. 

"You, actually." Crutchie grinned. "Didn't see anyone waiting in here with you. Are you getting stitched up or what?”

This time when Spot looked at Crutchie for too long, it was at his face rather than his leg. "What's it to you?" 

"Nothing much, just thought I should check in. Nothing wrong with being neighborly." 

Spot barked out a laugh. "Neighborly, huh?"

"Manhattan and Brooklyn is right next door to each other, ain't they?" Crutchie pointed out. "Guess they don't feel that way when you're walking across the bridge with a bloody arm, though."

"So maybe I wanted some air. Nothing wrong with a little excursion ." 

"Right." 

"'Sides," Spot added cautiously, "it wouldn't do my boys any good to see me hurt. What if one of 'em was to wander into the hospital like you did just now? You better not go blabbering around about this, by the way."

"I won't say a word," Crutchie promised. 

He went quiet after that. As much as Spot tried to talk big, he was sweating, and seemed to be struggling sometimes to keep his head upright. The red mark on the towel was only a little bigger, but the towel was thick. Crutchie knew what it was like not to feel well, and to struggle to hide it. He could let Spot do that without pushing him to conversation. After five minutes he made his way over to one of the nurses just to remind her that his friend was bleeding real bad. After ten minutes, somebody came for Spot, and brought him over to where one of the doctors was practicing. 

Crutchie sat next to him while he got stitched up. For somebody who was having a big needle shoved into his skin, Spot took it pretty well, only swearing under his breath now and then. Even so, by the time it was finished, Spot Conlon was white as a ghost. 

"Hey," Crutchie reminded the nurse, "He just got stitched up. Why don't you get him some juice or something, huh?"

It worked. A minute later, while the doctor was cleaning Spot up, the nurse came by with some juice and cookies. Spot looked at them like he wasn't quite sure what they were for. 

"See?" Crutchie said. "I've been here a lot. If I weren't here with you, I betcha you wouldn't know to ask for the dinner special. I'm just making sure you get your money's worth."

"Hmm." Spot nodded, and took a bite of his food. "Thanks," he said, once he'd gulped down his juice. "Hope this ain't the best grub Manhattan has to offer, but thanks."

Crutchie smiled, "At least it don't cost you extra."

They waited another ten minutes, before Spot announced he was better and he was going to go back where he belonged. Crutchie watched as he counted out his pennies to pay the doctor. He hoped that that wasn't all Spot had.

"You want I should walk back to Brooklyn with you?"

"Not unless you'se gonna stay. So, maybe I owe you a place, you know, for the cookies, but I'm not gonna to have a Manhattan newsie milling about if I can help it." 

Crutchie shrugged. "Fair enough. Better be getting back home then. Guess I'm Manhattan through and through."

With that they parted ways. Crutchie thought that was the end of it, but two weeks later a paper bag with three oranges and Crutchie's name on it arrived at the lodging house. There was a scrap of paper inside. Jack snatched it up and read it. 

"To Crutchie from Spot Conlon, in thanks for services rendered." Jack let out a low whistle. "Jesus Crutchie, what kind of adventures are you getting into when I ain't around to watch you."

Crutchie grinned, "Not much. Just showing Spot where to buy some cheap grub. Don't see why he's sending me gifts for something anyone would've done."


End file.
